A Change for the Better
by xelectrogirlx
Summary: AU. John and Sherlock meet for the first time at Secondary School. They form an uneasy friendship but will John's ties to the 'popular' crowd mean that he loses sight of what's important in his life? The two boys separate, only to meet again years later in their thirties. Will John try to make amends? And will Sherlock accept his apology? Johnlock eventually.
1. Chapter 1

**A Change for the Better**

**by xelectrogirlx**

**Chapter One**

_**New Student**_

"Have you seen the new kid?" Rob asks, plopping his bag down by the desk and sinking into his seat. John looks up from where he's doodling on his brand new pad of paper and shakes his head.

"No, why?"

"He just looks weird, that's all. I said 'hi' to him in the corridor, Josh was showing him round, and he just stared at me without saying anything. Come to think of it, he looked kinda like an alien."

John laughs and Rob joins in. "Well he sounds unusual."

"The guy's probably a complete freak," Rob responds, taking out his pencil case as Mr Hughes makes his way to the front of the class ready to begin the lesson. "Oh look, speak of the devil."  
John looks up, interested despite himself. The new student is standing at the threshold, and behind him John can see Josh scurrying away. Mr Hughes has spotted him as well and immediately claps his hands together, drawing the class's attention.

"Ah, you must be…" he consults the register lying on his desk, "Sherlock, right? Unusual name. Come in."

The boy enters and stands by the desk. John notices that he doesn't seem to have the usual shyness and reserve of most new students. Instead odd almond shaped eyes scan the room with a cool, analytical stare.

"So, Sherlock, tell us a bit about yourself."

"Why?" The boy's voice is a low drawl with arrogance dripping from every syllable. Mr Hughes looks slightly taken aback.

"Why what?"

"_Why_ must I tell you about myself? For you to teach well must you really know that I have an older brother, I like science and that my father died when I was seven?"

Mr Hughes flushes slightly. "Well, no but…"

"I'm sure you don't start every class by announcing that your cat just had kittens and that your mother has moved in with you to help out because your girlfriend has just left you to live in a commune with another woman."

There's a small titter from the class and a few shocked intakes of breath. Mr Hughes stammers and blinks hard several times, his eyes looking suspiciously watery behind his glasses. John, even though he has a natural dislike for most teachers, feels a little sorry for him.

"Told you he'd be a freak," Rob hisses next to him and John finds it hard to disagree.

"Right, Sherlock, go find an empty seat please," Mr Hughes says, turning to fiddle with something near the whiteboard so that his back is to the class. Sherlock walks confidently down the aisle until Joseph Winter sticks out a foot and neatly manages to trip him up. Sherlock tumbles to the floor, his books falling out of his arms and scattering to bump up against desk and chair legs. There's another louder titter from the class. Mr Hughes, turns around and sighs loudly.

"Sherlock, I told you to find a seat. This is no time to be playing games. You've already made quite enough of an entrance, thank you. Any more trouble and you'll be in detention before your first lesson's even over. Is that understood?"

Sherlock, scrambling to his feet and seeming all long legs and arms, nods. This time it's his turn to flush and John smirks to himself. The smirk fades as Sherlock makes a beeline for him and with a dawning sort of horror he realises that his desk is the only one with an empty seat. Rob is already looking at him pityingly.

Sherlock folds himself in next to him and John automatically shifts his chair away a little.

"I don't bite you know," Sherlock informs him, raising an eyebrow disdainfully. John slides his eyes away.

"Don't talk to me."

"Why not?"

"We're not friends. And Mr Hughes is talking."

Sherlock lets out a snort but as John casts a quick glance at him he sees the other boy looks hurt before his features carefully smooth into a mask of indifference once more. John feels a low coil of guilt settle in his stomach but he ignores it and tries to pay attention to what Mr Hughes is saying.

As the lesson draws to a close, John flings his equipment into his rucksack and heads for the door as fast as he can.

"I saw the freak was trying to talk to you," Rob says, bumping his shoulder into John's playfully. "What was he saying?"

John rolls his eyes. "Nothing really. I made it clear I didn't wanna talk to him."

Rob grins. "Good on you. I mean I don't like teachers or anything but what he said to Hughes was totally out of order."

_Kind of incredible at the same time_, John thinks. He didn't like that Sherlock had embarrassed Mr Hughes in front of everybody but he had to admit, even just to himself, that the other boy must be some kind of genius if all that he'd said was correct. And, judging by Hughes's reaction, it had been.

"What've you got next?"

"English," John says, pulling out his timetable and groaning. "What about you?"

"History with Lancaster." Rob makes a face and swings right down a different corridor, waving his hand in John's general direction. "Catch you later."

John's approaching his English classroom when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Turning around he finds himself face to face with Sherlock. This close he can see that Sherlock's eyes are a strange mixture of green and blue, the hue seeming to change continually. His wild dark hair falls in tangled curls over his pale forehead and a faint tinge of pink stains his high cheekbones as he stares down at John.

"What?" John mutters, shifting his feet and avoiding meeting Sherlock's piercing gaze.

"Is this the right corridor for English with Mrs Philllips?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah. Don't you have the number of the room on your timetable?"

He looks at Sherlock just in time to see him send a withering glare in his direction.

"I do have the number. Unfortunately it seems that the majority of the rooms in this corridor do not."

John glances around and realises that he's right. The room numbers which used to be on the doors have now been either torn off or scribbled over. Without a map pointing out exactly which room he's supposed to be in, there's no way Sherlock would ever be able to find his way around.

"What happened to Josh?" John asks roughly.

"He scarpered after I informed him that having one testicle significantly bigger than the other was not necessarily a problem but that he should have it checked out by his GP. I may have also told him that his acne was hereditary and that he'd have it for at least another two years."

John whistles, impressed despite himself. "Wow, you really don't hold back, do you?"

"No. What would be the point?"

"I dunno. Cos you're kind of a jerk when you say things like that and I would've thought you'd want people to like you?"  
"Most people are idiots. Why would I want them to like me?"

John raises his hands. "Fine. Whatever. As it happens, I'm in your English class so I can show you the way." He pauses and eyes Sherlock speculatively. "Go on, do me."  
Sherlock blinks. "What?"

"Tell me all my secrets. I want to make sure you're not just making this up on the spot."

For some reason Sherlock seems hesitant. He shuffles his feet slightly and lowers his gaze to the floor, the faint pink tinging his cheekbones turning a brighter red. "I…"

"Come on. Or I really will think it's all bullshit."

"Fine." Sherlock raises his gaze back to John's face with a kind of desperation in his eyes. "You live with your parents and your older brother. Your father knocks you around on a fairly regular basis. Your mother used to try and protect you but now she doesn't bother and instead drowns herself in drink. Your brother is heading the same way. You don't have a lot of money and have several different plans about what to do after school, one of them being joining the army and one being medicine."

He stops and screws his eyes shut. John blinks.

"Wow. That was… wow. That was amazing, Sherlock."

Slowly Sherlock opens his eyes, looking faintly disbelieving.

"What did you say?"

"I said that was amazing. I genuinely thought you were making it all up but that was almost totally accurate."

"Almost?"

John shrugs. "I have an older sister, not brother. How did you even get that?"

Sherlock winces. "Sister! There's always something. Harry's short for Harriet I presume. It's on your rucksack, she clearly owned it before you. That's also how I guessed your family was poor. Hand-me-downs and also the state of your uniform."

"What's wrong with it?"

Sherlock raises his eyebrow. "Really? You want me to give you a list?"

"Okay, okay. Point taken."

"Do you want me to tell you how I got the rest of it?"

"No, it's fine. No need to show off. Besides, it's fairly obvious how you got the thing about my dad. I suppose the bruises kind of speak for themselves."

Sherlock looks vaguely uncomfortable. "Should I not have mentioned that? You did say to tell you all your secrets."

"Whatever. You've got no filter, I get it. But you should be prepared to make yourself a few enemies if you carry on the way you're going."

"Are you my enemy, John?"

John is suddenly struck by Sherlock's naivety. It's like he has no idea what is appropriate to bring up in this sort of social situation and instead just says aloud whatever crosses his mind at the time.

"No," he says eventually, turning away, "but you're kind of weird. You should probably try and fit in more. Most people won't take kindly to having their life stories aired in front of everybody else. English is this way."

XXXXXXXXXX

Over the next few weeks, Sherlock and John hardly interact at all. They have a few classes together but that's it. Then one day, Mr Hughes decides to set a new project which means they have to work as a pair.

"Seriously? We _have_ to work with our desk partner? Why?"

Next to him Sherlock sighs loudly.

"Don't argue with me, John. You're working with Sherlock and that's that. Now I want your projects handed in a month from today. I will set no other homework during that time so that you can give it your full attention." The bell rings and everybody begins packing up. John finishes stuffing his books into his bag and turns towards the door.

"So your house or mine?"

"Jesus, what? Sherlock…"

"I'm keen to get started straight away and seeing as you're pretty useless at Chemistry I'd have thought you'd want all the time you can get."

"Jesus," John says wonderingly, "you really are something else."

Sherlock looks faintly puzzled. "I don't understand. Is that a compliment?"

"You know what, never mind. I think we should go to yours." John flushes and scuffs his trainer against the floor. "My dad doesn't like company."

"I'll meet you outside the gates then," Sherlock says, swinging his bag over his shoulder. John nods and picks up his rucksack.

He's just exited the classroom when Rob runs up to him and claps a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey man. Too bad about working with the freak."

"He has a name," John responds sharply. Rob raises both hands in mock surrender.

"You can't deny he's a weirdo though. Anyway, Ryan's having a party next month. Me and some of the other guys were thinking that you should get the freak to go."  
"Why? You want to humiliate him in public?" John feels his palms begin to sweat. He's been wary of something like this happening ever since he first got in with the sporty popular crowd at school. He'd have had to be blind not to notice the way Rob, Will, Ryan and Joe treat some of the misfits at this school. It stands to reason that Sherlock, the most strange of them all, would catch their attention. "I don't know. Is that really necessary?"

"You know he called Amy a slut and a whore the other day?" Rob asks belligerently. "All she did was try to be nice to him and he basically told her that she slept with half the school for various favours."

John feels a little sick. The Fuller family have been friends of the Watsons for years. Amy Fuller, a year younger, is almost like a little sister to him.

"Besides, what are you, some kind of queer? Do you fancy Sherlock or something?"

John feels panic turn his already slightly sweaty palms clammy. For years he has striven to hide his inclination towards men. It's now got to the point where he feels irrationally guilty and ashamed anytime he showers with the rest of the guys after P.E. Even though none of them are anywhere near his type sometimes he worries that there is some sort of neon sign flashing over his head.

And does he fancy Sherlock? The simple yet complicated answer would be yes. Yes, he does find the other boy strangely fascinating and attractive. At the same time, he finds himself intimidated and a little freaked out by him.

"No!" he says vehemently, forcing a laugh from his throat. "Jesus, Rob. No."

"Then you'll get him to the party? You're his partner for this dumbass project. You can persuade him. C'mon, it's not like we're going to beat him up or anything. We'll just take him down a peg or two. It's for his own good. He's never going to get anywhere in life if he stays as arrogant as he is now." He sees John start to waver and plays his ace. "Do it for Amy, John. She's so upset about what he said to her."

"Alright, alright!" John responds eventually, tangling a hand in his hair. "I'll do it. But nothing too excessive, okay?"

"I promise," Rob says earnestly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_**Getting to Know You**_

Sherlock is waiting when John ambles out of the gates at twenty to four that afternoon. He has a lit cigarette in his hand and is lounging against the wall, his restless gaze taking in all the milling students. He spots John and drops the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with the toe of his shoe.

"Ready? My driver's just over there." He gestures to a dark car which is idling by the kerb. John gapes.

"Your driver?"

"Of course. Mummy would be horrified if I had to get here by something as common as the bus." This sentence is delivered in a perfectly neutral, deadpan tone and John squints at the taller boy, unsure whether he's serious or if this might be Sherlock's peculiar sense of humour.

"Right. So, will your driver be able to give me a lift back? My dad likes me and Harry to be back by seven at the latest."

"I presume so," Sherlock replies laconically, sliding into the passenger seat. John pauses, sighs and then gets in the back, feeling slightly irritated as he does so. It's like Sherlock goes out of his way to make John feel as stupid and inadequate as possible.

The drive to Sherlock's house takes about ten minutes. Sherlock himself doesn't talk and neither does the driver. John shifts uncomfortably on the leather seat and contents himself with staring out the window at the passing scenery.

Then the car draws into a driveway and John has to physically stop his mouth from falling open in astonishment.

"You live here?"

Sherlock heaves a sigh and gets out of the car. "Obvious, John," he says as he strides up to the front door of the absolutely enormous house. "We'd hardly be pulling up in front of a complete stranger's home would we?"

John trots after him, feeling more self-conscious than ever as he eyes the myriad sparkling windows and the elegant balustrades.

Before Sherlock reaches the door it opens to reveal a fairly small, plump woman wearing a housedress and an apron. Her grey hair is piled haphazardly on top of her head with a few large hairpins skewered through it. She's beaming as Sherlock strides up.

"I thought I heard the car. How was your day, Sherlock?"

"Fine," he responds curtly, moving past her without any other acknowledgement. John hastens up and thrusts his hand out.

"I'm John Watson, Mrs Holmes," he says as Sherlock clearly isn't going introduce him. To his surprise the woman chuckles as she takes his hand and pumps it up and down.

"Good to meet you John Watson but I'm hardly Mrs Holmes. My name's Jean, I'm the housekeeper and general dogsbody."

John flushes a brilliant red as he's towed into the cavernous foyer. "I'm so sorry," he mutters. "I just assumed…"

"Bless you, dear, don't worry."

"For all intents and purposes, John, Jean _is_ my mother. My biological parent can hardly be bothered with me unless it's to discuss my progress in school or my plans for a future career. Both of which, I might add, have so far been a continuous disappointment to her. So unlike my dear brother."

"Now, Sherlock, don't start," Jean scolds, swatting him lightly on the arm. "Your mother's just very busy, that's all."

"Yes, she's been busy for sixteen years," Sherlock drawls. "Well, come along, John. My room's this way." He heads abruptly towards the stairs towards the back of the foyer. John moves to trail after him but his wrist is caught suddenly by Jean who leans towards him confidentially.

"I'm so glad Sherlock's got a friend at last," she says in a low voice. "He's such a lonely boy."

John coughs awkwardly. He can hardly say that he and Sherlock aren't exactly friends and feels embarrassed on Sherlock's behalf. So he mumbles a vague agreement and follows after Sherlock who is now halfway up the staircase.

Sherlock's room is large and one of the strangest bedrooms John's ever been in. Ranged along the back wall are numerous metal tables with various scientific equipment set up on them. Vibrant liquids bubble in a few of the vials and John eyes them cautiously as he edges into the room and drops his bag down by the door. Sherlock is over to his left, clearing a space on a large desk.

"Sorry about the mess," he says suddenly, twisting a hand through his curls. "I'm not the tidiest of people, especially when I'm experimenting."  
"Experimenting?" John parrots faintly.

"Yes. I told you, and the whole class, that I'm interested in science. Which is why I believe you're lucky to be paired with me. With my knowledge our project will easily be the best in the class."

John blinks. "Do you actually know what 'modesty' means?"

Sherlock tilts his head as he eyes John speculatively. "I know what false modesty is, John. I know I'm exceptional at science and I'm quantifiably a genius. Since you, and everybody else in Hughes's class, are neither exceptional at science nor a genius I see no fault in saying that our project will be the best. It's simply fact. What would I gain in lying?"

"You could just not say it to start with," John mumbles, trying to quell his anger. The vague guilt he's been experiencing almost continually since agreeing to Rob's plan evaporates quickly. Rob is right. Sherlock _does_ need to be taken down a peg or two. "Come on then, _genius_. Let's get started."

Thankfully, once they embark on discussing ideas and experiments for their project, it gets a little easier between them. Sherlock even seems quite pleased at some of the suggestions John comes out with and every time he praises him John can't help the small, warm glow of happiness he feels, deep inside. He suspects this is because praise from Sherlock is not shallow nor meaningless. Whenever Sherlock Holmes says _well done_, John knows that he means it.

By about six o'clock, Sherlock stretches his arms languidly over his head. "Should we leave it there?" he asks. "I know you said you need to be home by seven. Where do you live?"

"Not far," John replies. "The Cranbrook estate."

"Ah yes," Sherlock says, and to his credit doesn't flinch at all. "That's about ten minutes from here, right?"

"Probably," John agrees, shrugging.

"Well, in that case, do you perhaps…" Sherlock glances at the floor and runs a hand through his hair, "… do you, I mean if you don't want to head straight…"

"Just spit it out," John says, smiling slightly at the almost nervous expression on Sherlock's face.

"Would you like to have a look at some of my experiments?" Sherlock asks quickly, his pale face flushing.

John shrugs, interested despite himself. "Sure. They're not going to blow up in my face or anything are they?"

Sherlock quirks his lips in the first approximation of a smile John's ever seen from him. "Shouldn't do."

To his surprise, John thoroughly enjoys the half hour or so they spend glancing over Sherlock's experiments. The knowledge Sherlock has of almost everything is incredible and John wonders what it must be like to have such a first class mind. He can almost understand Sherlock's arrogance and rudeness to others. Almost.

As he reaches the car and opens the door, John twists around to ask Sherlock something which has been bothering him for awhile.

"You said yourself that you think everybody else idiots and yet you went out of your way to talk to me that first day at school. Why?"

Sherlock shrugs and kicks lightly at the ground. "I don't really know." He glances up at John and then slides his gaze away. "Perhaps I thought you were slightly less idiotic than the others."

John huffs a laugh, nods and then climbs into the passenger seat. "Right. Well, I'll see you tomorrow then."

XXXXXXXXXX

The next day is Friday and most of John's friends are making plans about what to do at the weekend.

"You up for that new film, John?" Ryan asks, clapping him so hard on the back it makes John wince slightly. "It's supposed to be sick. And it's got that actress in it, you know, the one with the massive tits."

John flinches and then forces a sickly smile onto his face. Although he's attracted to boys he still likes girls but the way his mates talk about them sometimes makes him feel slightly ill.

"Erm, maybe. I think my Dad might want me to do a few things around the house," he says evasively.

"Aww, don't be such a loser, John."

Just as John is about to mumble something in response, someone else interrupts. "Just because John doesn't wish to see some vapid film with a no doubt predictable plot, dull actors and horrendous writing does not make him a loser. In fact, I should think it makes him rather the opposite."

John glances around to see Sherlock standing coolly just off to the side, his arms folded across his chest, his school uniform pristine as always.

"Fuck off, faggot. We're not talking to you," Ryan scoffs, turning away.

"C'mon, don't call him that," John says rather weakly, hating himself for his cowardice but unable to stand up for Sherlock any more.

"Well, he is," Ryan sneers. "Aren't you, Sherly?"

"I hardly believe my sexual preference is any of your business," Sherlock drawls, "and don't call me Sherly. John, don't forget we have practice for our project later."

"Oooh, _practice for the project_ John," Joe says, laughing. "Can't miss that, can you?"

Aware of all his mates smirking and laughing, John feels his face flushing bright red and can't meet Sherlock's eyes as he shrugs his shoulders.

"Whatever," he mumbles, turning away and heading out of the lunch hall. He feels Sherlock's gaze all the way, like a brand scorching his back.

XXXXXXXXXX

The drive to Sherlock's house is as quiet as always, but something seems a little off about it this time. They don't speak a word to each other until they've reached the sanctuary of Sherlock's bedroom.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says abruptly. "I won't talk to you at school if you don't want me to. I understand."

Immediately John feels like the world's biggest arsehole and he sucks in a deep breath. "No, God Sherlock, I'm the one who should be apologising. My friends are all dicks."

"Then why are you friends with them?" Sherlock asks bluntly. "They don't have a brain cell to rub together between them."

"They're not that bad," John protests half-heartedly. "They're just… different people to you, that's all."

"Yes, they're idiots," Sherlock repeats.

"Intelligence isn't everything," John snaps, feeling stung into defending his friends. Also, because he can't shake the feeling that Sherlock is classing him in with the rest of them.

"Oh, fine, if you're going to get all emotional about it," Sherlock says dismissively, waving a hand and turning away. "Shall we get started? I reckon if we carry on as we're going we should have a solid presentation for next month."

John sinks down on the chair next to Sherlock's and sighs. "Fine. Go ahead."

By the time they finish their work John is starting to feel heartily sick of science and says as much to Sherlock who frowns.

"Is there something you'd rather do?"

John shrugs. "I dunno. D'you have any films? Sitcoms?"

Sherlock makes a disgusted face. "Is that what normal people do? Very well, I think there are some in the lounge."

The lounge turns out to be a large, cosy room just down the corridor. There's a big flat screen television in the corner and a cabinet just to its left containing a vast array of DVDs, games and various different consoles. John gazes at it in astonishment.

"My mother has a very definite idea of what teenage boys should like," Sherlock says quietly by way of an explanation. "I think I've been in this room twice before and never of my own free will."

"Yes, you'd much rather spend your time fiddling around with your little _experiments_," a deep voice drawls from the doorway. John spins around, startled, but Sherlock merely heaves a long-suffering sigh.

"I thought you were still at Uni, Mycroft," he says tiredly. "What happened? Did the campus cafeteria run out of cake?"

"Oh hilarious, Sherlock," the man at the door replies, his eyes fixed on John who is still none the wiser as to who this person is. "You're being very rude. Why don't you introduce me to your friend?"

"Mycroft, this is John Watson. John this is my older brother. There, are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Mycroft replies sarcastically.

"It's nice to meet you," John says, holding out his hand. Mycroft raises an eyebrow but then shakes it firmly. He turns to Sherlock.

"I'm back from Uni for a week. I did tell you," he says, slightly reprovingly.

"Oh really? I must have deleted it."

"Deleted it?" John queries faintly.

"His _mind palace_," Mycroft says. "Anything he experiences which he deems unimportant or not worth remembering he deletes. That would include such basic knowledge as the Solar System."

John turns to Sherlock incredulously. "You've _forgotten_ the Solar System? Seriously?"

"It's not like it's going to help me in the future," Sherlock replies defensively, a blush spreading up from his neck. "Mycroft why can't you just sod off? John and I were about to watch a film. Or a sitcom."

"Really?"

"Yeah," John says. "D'you fancy joining us?"

Both brothers stare at him blankly. Eventually Mycroft chuckles. "No, thank you John. I have some research to be doing in the library. I just wanted to make my presence known."

"What are you studying at Uni?" John asks politely.

"I'm currently doing a Masters course in Experimental Physics and Politics," Mycroft replies smoothly. John feels his jaw slacken.

"That's in addition to the other half a dozen degrees he's got," Sherlock says sarcastically. "And he's only twenty-three. I'm sure you can understand why I'm such a continual disappointment to my dear mother when I have a sibling like darling Mycroft."

"Now, now Sherlock," Mycroft replies reprovingly. "You know if you'd just apply yourself more you could be much more successful."

"Sorry but my dream is not to run the country, Mycroft. I can't imagine anything more tediously dull and boring. Now please, don't let us keep you from your _research_." With this, Sherlock flings himself down on the sofa and buries his head in the cushions. John stares at him and then looks back at Mycroft who smiles slightly.

"Right, well I'll be off then. It was interesting to meet you John."

He turns and disappears out the door. John stays where he is for a moment, processing what's just happened and then turns to pick out a DVD since it's fairly obvious that Sherlock won't be moving from the sofa for awhile.

As the opening titles start to play, Sherlock twists himself around so he's gazing at the screen.

"What on _earth_ is this drivel?"

"It's _Lord of the Rings_," John replies defensively. "And it's not drivel. The original books were Tolkien's masterpiece and the film adaptations are quite frankly epic."

Sherlock, to his credit, stays silent and for about twenty minutes his eyes remain fixed on the screen.

"What in the world are hobbits?" he says after awhile.

John sighs exasperatedly. "It's all explained if you'll just _watch_ it," he replies. Sherlock snorts but doesn't say anything further.

About halfway through, John becomes aware that Sherlock has shifted his position slightly so that his toes are brushing John's upper thigh. John watches as Sherlock wriggles his feet around, his gaze still fixed on the screen. John opens his mouth and then thinks better of it and shuts it again. But a small smile finds its way onto his face and stays there for the rest of the film.

When it finishes, John asks Sherlock what he thought.

"Well, it was utter nonsense from start to finish but I suppose it wasn't completely unenjoyable," he admits. "The screenwriters and the director seemed to know what they were doing which is more than I can say for a lot of films made nowadays."

John grins broadly. "You know, I think exactly the same thing. Like that film my mates want me to see tomorrow. It's gonna be utter crap, I know it."

Sherlock pulls himself upright and sits cross-legged on the sofa, facing John. "Then why are you going? You've said it yourself, the film will likely be absolute rubbish. You have to learn not to be so easily led, John."

"I'm not easily led!" John bristles. "Who the fuck d'you think you are?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't get so offended. I understand your position. You're in the popular crowd but unsure of exactly how you got there. You enjoy not being hassled at school, you were bullied at your previous one, and so you don't want to do or say anything to rock the boat. So even though you are clearly head and shoulders above your _friends_ in terms of your intelligence you lower yourself and follow whatever they do. That means you are easily led."

John stares at him, torn between fury and a strange warmth at the compliment Sherlock's managed to squeeze in there.

"You think I'm intelligent?" he manages at last.

"Clearly not anywhere near my level but you're not completely idiotic. You have your own mind and I wish that you'd use it instead of following those cavemen around blindly. During our study periods here you've demonstrated a sound working knowledge of Chemistry. Yet in class you'd rather pass notes with Rob and Joe and completely ignore Mr Hughes."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," John says tightly. Much to his surprise, Sherlock doesn't push it.

"Fine." They sit in silence for a minute or so until John becomes aware that Sherlock is fidgeting uncomfortably on the sofa.

"What?" he asks eventually.

"Well, if you decide that you don't want to go and watch this vapid film with your equally vapid friends, I suppose you could always come here. We can… do things that you'd like to do. We have fairly extensive grounds here. We could make a den or climb trees or swim in the lake. If you'd like."

John gazes at him. "Make a den? Climb trees? Jesus, how old are you Sherlock? Seven? I grew out of all that _years_ ago."

Sherlock flushes a brilliant crimson and turns away. "Right. Of course. Well, enjoy your film." John blinks and then remembers Jean's comment.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry. Here, give me your mobile number and I'll text you if I don't go to the film. Okay?"

Sherlock rattles off a number, still not looking at him, and John quickly enters it into his phone. Suddenly John freezes.

"Shit! Shit!"

"What is it?"

"The time, Sherlock! It's nearly half past eight!"

Sherlock twists back around to face him, comprehension dawning on his face. "Ah. Your father?"

"Yes! Oh bugger." John leaps up from the sofa and begins pacing. "He's going to be furious." His mobile begins ringing, the display saying 'Harry'. Still cursing under his breath he swipes the screen and holds it to his ear. Faintly, Sherlock can hear a female voice talking at the speed of light.

"I know. I know, Harry, I… I'm just at a friend's, I lost track of time. Jesus, I _know_! Just tell him I'm coming home now alright? Great. See you." He ends the call and looks pleadingly at Sherlock. "Can your driver take me home now?"

"Of course," Sherlock says quietly. "Come on."

As John opens the passenger door, Sherlock takes hold of his wrist. "If you… get into trouble and you need somebody just give me a call, yeah?"

John blinks in surprise, nods sharply and then slides into the seat, pulling the door shut behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_**Second Thoughts**_

"Are you sure this is advisable, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks, swirling the whisky in his tumbler as he gazes at his little brother. "You remember how things ended with Victor in year eight?"

"Yes, _thank you_ Mycroft," Sherlock snaps, picking up his violin. He pauses in the middle of applying resin to the bow. "John's different. I know it."

"He seems to be _very_ easily led. And doesn't he associate with the popular crowd? That doesn't sound like a recipe for success to me."

"He's different," Sherlock insists, although his tone is a little weaker. "He's not Victor."

Mycroft pauses and takes a sip of his whisky before he replies. "I just don't want to see you hurt again, Sherlock. I would have thought the experience with Victor would have proved to you that caring is not an advantage. Who are you trying to convince that John is different? Because I don't think it's me."

Sherlock doesn't reply, choosing to launch into an elaborate and loud concerto. Mycroft sighs and gets up. He watches Sherlock for a minute before reaching out and ruffling his hair. As he leaves the room he murmurs under his breath.

"Be careful, brother dear."

XXXXXXXXXX

John gets out of the car, shuts the door and stares at his house as the driver pulls away. Swallowing, he sets his shoulders back and lets himself in. He kicks off his ratty trainers in the hallway and tentatively begins climbing the stairs. He should have known he wouldn't be so lucky.

"John!" The shout comes from the doorway to his right. Screwing his eyes shut briefly he takes a deep breath before turning and going back down the stairs. Entering the living room he takes up a firm stance by the door as he looks at his father.

Hamish Watson is slumped on the sofa, an open can of beer in his hand. The ashtray next to him is overflowing with cigarette butts and the room is redolent with the stench of smoke. As he turns to his only son, John can see that his dark blue eyes are bloodshot and angry.

"What time d'you call this?" he demands, his voice rough.

"I know it's late, dad, but I was just at a friend's house. We were doing homework for a project."

"Bullshit!" his dad roars, heaving himself to his feet, a fair quantity of beer sloshing over the rim of his can. "You've been with one of your little bum buddies haven't you?"

John gapes, still not used to the accusations his dad levels at him almost constantly. "No! I'm not gay, Dad!"

"Sure," his dad sneers. "Well, you certainly won't be for much longer. I'll beat the queer out of you if it's the last thing I do."

With no other warning his free hand lashes out, catching John a forceful blow on the side of his head. The pain flares, sharp and stinging and John clutches at his face, his eyes watering. Hamish is just getting ready for another go when John's mother peers around the partition door.

"Dinner's ready, dear," she slurs. John determinedly catches her gaze, the left side of his face already turning red from his father's strike. She drops her eyes to the floor and shuffles back into the kitchen. John feels tears threatening to fall and blinks them back. To cry would be to show punishable weakness.

Dinner is a silent affair. His mother, father and sister drink all the way through. John stares at his glass of water miserably.

"So, Johnny, how's school?" his mother asks.

"Fine," he mumbles.

"Doing well in your classes?"

"Fine."

"You still friends with Rob Drake and Joe Winters?" his father demands. John stares at his plate and nods. "Well, they'll keep you on the straight road. Their dads are decent blokes. _Real_ men, John. None of this nancy business."  
"Yes, dad. Actually I was thinking of going to see a film with them tomorrow. That new one with the hot actress." As he hears himself speak, he cringes internally. This isn't _him_. He wants to hit himself. He can sense Harry gawping at him from across the table.

His dad's thick brows knit together. "Oh, yeah I think I know the one." He laughs raucously and claps John on the back, making him jolt forward. "Good choice, John boy."

As soon as he is safe in his room, John puts on his loudest rock CD and gazes at himself in the mirror. He sees a teenage boy, perhaps a little on the short side but with decent body muscle. His hair is thick and a dark blonde. He also sees the bruise which is starting to form on his cheek. He sees the tired blue eyes. He sees a coward who can't be himself because he's scared of being rejected.

Abruptly he whirls around and fishes his mobile out from his pocket.

_What time d'you want me round tomorrow? JW_

He flings the phone onto his bed and sinks down next to it, his head in his hands. Less than a minute has passed before it chimes with an incoming text.

_Does 10:30am suit? SH_

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock paces in front of the windows anxiously, one hand buried in his hair, the other tapping a rhythm on his jeans. Mycroft watches him with a slightly worried expression. He's seen his brother like this before and the results had been devastating. Still, Sherlock doesn't take kindly to interference, especially not from him. The most he can do is sit back and let it play out how it will.

The distinctive sounds of a car pulling up makes Sherlock suddenly bolt from the room. Mycroft sighs.

XXXXXXXXXX

"You didn't have to send the car you know," John says, ruffling his hair as he peers at Sherlock. "I could have got the bus."

Sherlock shrugs. "It seemed easier and it saves you a bus fare." He pauses and then looks closer at John. "Your father?"

John instinctively raises a hand to the blossoming bruise on his cheek. "Yeah. He wasn't too happy."

"What did you tell your friends?"

"Said I was feeling sick. They hurled abuse via text but seemed to accept it."

They stand awkwardly for a few moments. "So, what d'you fancy doing?" Sherlock asks eventually. "I realise tree climbing and such is out so…"  
John interrupts, holding out a hand. "No, Sherlock. I'm sorry for saying that. It actually sounds kinda fun. I even bought swimming trunks for the lake." He holds up a plastic Lidl bag as proof. Sherlock smiles.

XXXXXXXXXX

"You call that a dive?" John calls mockingly as Sherlock bobs to the surface, dark hair plastered to his face. "That was shocking!"

"I'd like to see you do any better," Sherlock shouts back.

John immediately strides to the end of the wooden jetty, squares his shoulders and executes a near perfect dive. He comes up spluttering and finds himself face to face with Sherlock. Up this close he can pick out every individual eyelash, every twitch of the muscles in the other boy's face. Those mercurial eyes flicker from side to side as Sherlock gazes at him. John finds his gaze dropping to Sherlock's full lips and he swallows. John treads water automatically as he leans a little closer, aware that Sherlock has mirrored his movement. Suddenly all of his friends and his father's words flash into his mind and he backs away in the water, his eyes wide with horror.

"So," he coughs out awkwardly. "Climbing trees next? Should get dry though first, right?"

"Right," Sherlock echoes faintly, looking a little bewildered. However soon enough the implacable mask has descended again and he swims after John's swiftly retreating figure.

To John's surprise it's easily the best day he's had in quite awhile. When he's with Sherlock he realises that he doesn't have to pretend to be someone he's not. He doesn't have to fake interest in porn magazines or the latest football scores. He can be himself.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" John asks as they sit on the bank, dangling their feet in the water some time later. Sherlock huffs and gazes up at the sky.

"I don't know. My mother and Mycroft both have all these expectations of what I should do with my life. But I honestly have no idea. Mycroft has it easy, he's known he's wanted to be in politics since he was about six apparently."

"You're good at science," John ventures. "Couldn't you be a research scientist or something?"

"I'd get bored," Sherlock replies. "I don't want to limit myself. I want to do something that's going to be challenging and different every day."

John frowns. "I think being a research scientist _would_ be that," he says. Sherlock flicks a piece of grass at him. "Alright. Then what about using that thing you do? You know, the deducing thing."

"That's just a trick," Sherlock says dismissively. "It's never going to get me anywhere."

"Let me guess, that's something your mother and Mycroft have told you, right?"

Sherlock blinks at him, looking vaguely surprised and a little impressed.

"How did you know?"

"Because that's got parental interference written all over it. It's like telling a kid who loves to sing that they'll never make it as a singer or someone who paints that they'll never be an artist."

"Well what do _you_ think I could do with it?"

John shrugs and thinks for awhile. "I don't know. A detective of some kind?"

Sherlock doesn't reply and they sit in peaceful silence for a minute or two.

"What do you want to be? A doctor or a soldier?" Sherlock asks eventually.

"I'd like to do both. Maybe an army doctor?"

"It'd be very dangerous," Sherlock says. John glances sharply at him but there's no emotion on Sherlock's face as he remains gazing blankly up at the sky. John feels a little disappointed. He doesn't know what he was hoping to see… perhaps some sort of worry for him? But then he has to remind himself that Sherlock is Sherlock. He simply doesn't care about anybody else in any meaningful manner.

"_If you… get into trouble and you need somebody just give me a call, yeah?"_

Sherlock's words from yesterday drift across his mind and he gives himself a little shake. Beginning to think that Sherlock has any sort of real emotional connection to anybody will only make him feel guiltier about Rob's party idea.

XXXXXXXXXX

At school on Monday, John corners Rob after their P.E lesson.

"Listen mate, I don't think the whole thing with Sherlock's a good idea."

Rob looks at him as if he's grown a third head. "What? Why not?"

John fidgets and kicks at the floor. "It's just… he's not that bad, you know? Once you get to know him."

"What d'you think we're going to do to him? Kill him? John, mate, we're just going to take him down a peg or two. Nothing serious. It'll do him good in the long run, to learn a bit of humility."

John clenches his fists. "It just doesn't seem right, Rob. Shouldn't we just rise above it? I know he can be difficult but he's still a person."

Rob takes a step back and eyes him speculatively. "You're not actually _friends_ with him, are you? He doesn't have friends, unless they're one of his little bum buddies."

"_You've been with one of your little bum buddies haven't you?"_

John swallows hard. "No, not at all. No, we're just partners for this stupid project. Don't worry, Rob, I'll get him to come. When is it again?"

"Next Saturday. They've moved it forward because Ryan's parents are out of town that weekend."

John smiles weakly. "Awesome. We'll be there."

"Make sure of it." Rob leans forward confidentially. "I'm telling you this because I'm your mate, alright? And mates look out for each other. You've got to watch your back, John. People are noticing how close you and Sherlock are at the moment."

"What? I've been round to his house like twice. We're… we're partners for this project…"

Rob lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I know that, mate. But people talk, you know?"

That evening at home, John stares once more at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn't quite know how he's come to this point. At his core he knows that what he's planning on doing to Sherlock isn't right. He's unsure now whether or not the other boy deserves it whereas before he'd been so sure. He hates Sherlock for making him doubt himself and hates him for putting him in this position.

It used to be so easy. He was a member of the popular crowd. People never hassled him or gave him any grief. Being somebody makes coming home to his drunken family easier. It makes the bruises easier to bear when he knows that someone in the lunch queue will give up their place for him if he looks at them in a certain way.

Now Sherlock Holmes has come into his life and turned it all upside down. John gives himself a little shake and squares his shoulders. Sherlock _is_ arrogant. Sherlock _is_ rude and cruel to others. A little dressing down wouldn't go amiss.

John nods at his reflection and dresses for bed, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his gut.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: First of all, thanks so much to everybody who has favourited, followed or reviewed this story. It really means a lot and inspires me to keep writing. Just a few notes re where this story is going. The focus is going to be on the guys as adults rebuilding their relationship. Sherlock's trust has been shattered by John in a big way. John needs to come to terms with what he's done. Just to let you know, I absolutely love John. He is in no way the villain of this piece. I just think that he may have done some things when he was younger that he's not proud of as an adult, as I'm sure we've all done. So yes, you may hate him at the end of this chapter but please believe me it will get better as I'm a sucker for a happy ending. Any out of character behaviour I'm very sorry for but this is how I see the characters! **

**Thank you again for all your reviews, they really mean a lot. Even those who stay silent but favourite and follow I love you all too. On with the show. And please don't hate me after this chapter…**

**Chapter Three**

_**Betrayal**_

The next few days pass by quickly. John spends most of his waking hours either in school or at Sherlock's. He only returns home for meals and to sleep. His father seems to think he's hanging out with Joe and Rob and only lashes out occasionally.

Soon enough Thursday rolls around and John thinks that it might be time to broach the subject of the party with Sherlock. He's got to know the other boy well enough to realise that he'll be resistant to the idea at first.

"Absolutely no way."

"Sherlock…"

"No, John. I will not go with you to this _party_. I have far better things to do."

"It'll be fun." He feels terrible even saying it.

"It will _not_ be fun. It'll be tedious and dull, like everything else you people enjoy."

John takes a step back. "What?"

"Oh don't take it so personally. You know what I mean. Are you going to help me with this project or not?"

"Why's it all about the work with you, Sherlock? Why can't you just relax for once in a while?"

"This _is_ relaxing for me," Sherlock retorts, flipping his hair back with one hand. "Just because you feel the need to go out and get hopelessly drunk, does not mean I have to. If you want to make out with that whore Amy Fuller then that's up to you."

"She's not a whore, Sherlock!" John exclaims. "Why would you even say that?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm not going to this party."

"Please, Sherlock."

"Why are you pushing this?" Sherlock's brow is creased in confusion. "Why do you want me to go so much?"

For one split second, John is tempted to blurt out the whole thing. The way Sherlock's piercing eyes are staring at him, he has a feeling the younger boy knows exactly what he's thinking anyway. That feeling is swiftly overtaken by fear. If he lets Sherlock know what's planned, the popular group will reject him. His life at home will become unbearable. He'll be attacked from all corners. Sherlock… Sherlock isn't worth it. He's tough. He'll cope.

"Because it'll be fun and I want you there. Please do this. For me."

Sherlock bites his lip and gazes at John. John is just steeling himself to being an outcast forever when Sherlock replies.

"Alright. I'll go with you. But not for long. I leave when I want, okay?"

John exhales loudly with relief. "Fine. Great!" He turns to go and then Sherlock catches hold of his arm.

"Aren't you coming to mine tomorrow evening like usual? For the project?"

John scratches at the back of his neck. "Ah, no. My dad wants me and Harry home as soon as we finish school. He's got something he wants to tell us, apparently."

Sherlock shuffles slightly. "John… if things aren't brilliant with your parents, you would tell me, correct? That's what friends do, isn't it? And you know you can always stay here."

John blinks. "Sherlock, I really appreciate that. Honestly. But it's nothing I can't handle." He glances at his watch. "I should go. I'll come by about seven Saturday evening though? And I'll see you at school tomorrow."

Sherlock nods absently, those amazing eyes still scanning John's face. "Fine. I presume there's no dress code for this party?"

John laughs, although the guilt is now almost tearing him into pieces. "No. Just come as you are."

XXXXXXXXXX

After school on Friday, John lets himself into his house feeling anxious. His parents haven't said a word about what they want to speak to him and his sister about and he's fearing the worst.

The living room is silent when he drops his bag. Then he hears muted voices from the kitchen.

"Johnny? Is that you?"

He rolls his eyes as he pads towards the kitchen. "Yes, it's me."

His mother, father and sister are all sat at the table. For once, his sister has a cup of tea sat in front of her. His parents have what looks like an entire bar set out in front of them and seem to be making serious inroads into the bottles if the glazed expressions are anything to go by. John grimaces and sits down.

"Right, we're all here, let's get on with it," his father slurs. "I've been offered a job. It's a brilliant position at a new factory. I'll be the overseer. Payrise, better accommodation… the lot."

John feels a knot growing in his stomach. Not this again.

"It's a brilliant opportunity," his mother says, locking eyes with both him and Harry.

"We're moving Monday morning," his father says bluntly. "I've already made arrangements with your schools and your new one in Leeds."

"_Leeds_!" Harry chokes out. "What the fuck are you talking about? _Leeds_?"

John is shocked into silence. Monday. That's… less than three days. What about Sherlock?

"There's no point arguing with us about this," his dad states firmly. "We're moving. That's it."

"Why are you telling us this _now_?" Harry wails. "What about my friends? I have a life here! I thought this was the last time. You said!"

"You'll make new friends Harriet," his mum says weakly.

"_Don't_ call me that!" she shouts. "John… back me up here!"

But John is beyond words. Everything… down the drain. All his effort… for nothing. He'll be back to being the unpopular nerdy bloke. He can't let that happen. If anything he needs to get into his role at the party tomorrow more than ever. He needs to be the centre of the popular crowd. If he can pretend to them, he can pretend to anyone.

Sherlock briefly crosses his mind but he pushes that thought to one side. He can't be having a guilt trip now. In the scale of his life, Sherlock ranks very low. They've been sort of friends for a little less than a month. This is his _life_.

Instead of responding he pushes his chair back and walks upstairs. Distantly he can hear the shouting and screaming beginning, along with the sound of smashing glass. He crawls into bed and presses his face into the pillow, tears soaking into the fabric. He cries for his life and for the fledgling relationship he's now lost with Sherlock.

XXXXXXXXXX

All of Saturday, John avoids his family. When six o'clock rolls around he begins getting ready. He dresses to impress with his favourite pair of dark denim jeans, a tight blue t-shirt and his prized leather jacket. Grabbing his phone, keys and wallet he shoves his feet into a pair of beat-up converses and walks outside to the waiting taxi.

The taxi drops him off at Sherlock's house at about quarter to seven. He's early and he shuffles on the porch before finally getting up the nerve to ring the doorbell. For some ridiculous reason he feels like he's knocking at the door of a prospective girlfriend, waiting to meet her family.

Jean opens the door and welcomes him in.

"Sherlock's still in his room. D'you want to go up?"

"Nah, I'll wait here if that's alright." The less he has to do with Sherlock now, the better. He knows what he's going to do to him tonight and the guilt is like a solid weight in his gut which refuses to go away. At the same time, he doesn't see any other option. He has to look out for number one now.

Then he sees Sherlock coming down the stairs and his world grinds to a halt.

Sherlock is wearing the skinniest pair of jeans he's ever seen in his life. They do sinful things to the younger boy's arse and also John's groin. A tight silver shirt is tucked into the jeans, emphasising the slender waist and surprising musculature of Sherlock's chest. He has a black jacket draped around his shoulders and his dark curls look to have some sort of product in them. It's clear he's made an effort.

"Ready to go?" he asks bluntly as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. His eyes rake over John once, twice… three times. "You look… good," he says eventually.

"Thank you," John replies, miraculously without stuttering. He would like to repay the compliment because it's very obvious that Sherlock does look very, _very_ good, but that would be going against his distancing policy. So instead he just leads the way out to the waiting taxi.

XXXXXXXXXX

Ryan's house is the biggest on the street, which shouldn't really surprise John. Sherlock pays the taxi and they head up the driveway. All around them people are shrieking, laughing and drinking, even at only twenty past seven.

"This is going to be _hideous_," Sherlock hisses at him as they approach the front door which is wide open. Golden light spills out onto the path as they cross the threshold.

"Oh, it won't be that bad," John responds, hating himself even as he says it. "Get a drink down you. We'll head to the kitchen after saying 'hi' to Ryan."

"Oh _joy_," Sherlock says sarcastically, but nevertheless follows him through the crowd. Eventually they find Ryan in the midst of a throng in the living room.

"Ryan! Hey!" John shouts, shouldering his way through the people. Ryan, his face already flushed with alcohol, turns to him.

"Johnny! Wassup? And look, you brought Sherlock!" he aims a very obvious wink in John's direction. Terrified, John glances at Sherlock but luckily for him the other boy is looking in the opposite direction.

"Great party," John says. "We're gonna get a drink. See you in a bit."

"Yeah, you will," Ryan says, winking again. John tugs Sherlock swiftly in the direction of what he hopes is the kitchen.

"What was all that winking for?" Sherlock questions as John pops the cap off a couple of beers.

"No idea. Bottoms up!"

Sherlock eyes his drink with distaste and takes a tiny sip.

XXXXXXXXXX

Three hours later and John is blazing. He's lost count of the number of drinks he's had but it must be a few because his head is feeling pleasantly blurry.

"John, I think you've had enough." Sherlock's voice is at his ear. "Come on, I think we need to sober you up."

"'m'fine," John slurs, though he lets Sherlock lead him upstairs to the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind them and John leans over the basin while Sherlock runs the cold water.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asks, looking completely out of his depth.

"Drunk," John mumbles and then laughs a little. He cocks his head at himself in the mirror. "Look! I'm my dad!"

"Don't say that," Sherlock says, frowning. "You're nothing like him."

"I'm more like him than you know," John says, his tongue loosened by the alcohol. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"What are you sorry for?"

John blinks and focuses back on the porcelain of the sink. "Nothing. It's just… I'm not worth anything. I'm not worth your time, Sherlock. You deserve much better than me."

Suddenly he feels a faint, cool pressure on his jaw. Sherlock's long fingers are pulling his face around.

"John, I… I really like you. I don't like to hear you deride yourself. And I…" Sherlock seems to give up on words. Instead he swallows hard and John has a split second to notice the fear in Sherlock's eyes. And then those cupid-bow lips are on his and he sighs. It is so _good_. It's perfect, and it's a cliché but it feels like coming home. His lips move as he begins to kiss Sherlock back. And then the bathroom door bursts open.

"What the _fuck_! You freak!"

John, in his inebriated state, is aware of pounding footsteps and suddenly Sherlock is no longer in his arms. He blinks slowly, disorientated.

"Get him out of here guys! Show him what we think of him! John… mate, are you alright? Shit, he must've forced himself on you. Guys, take the freak downstairs yeah?"

Dimly John recognises Rob's voice. Joe and Ryan are also there. He sees Sherlock being yanked out of his arms by Ryan and Joe. The younger boy looks terrified and sick. His face is chalk white.

"John? John! Please!"

"Shut up, freak. He's the one who got you here in the first place. He knows you need to be put in your place. Isn't that right, John? Fuck and he forced himself on you. Always knew the freak was a faggot."

"John!" the last word is a whimper. "_Please_."

John's head swims and he turns and vomits into the basin.

A few minutes later and he feels steady enough to leave the bathroom. His head is still swimming as he descends the stairs. The house seems oddly devoid of people until he reaches the ground floor and sees the scene in the living room.

Sherlock is in the centre, on the floor, curled into a foetal ball. His nose is gushing blood and soaking his beautiful silver shirt. The guys gathered around him include Joe, Rob and Ryan amongst others. As John gapes in drunken horror he sees them aiming kicks at Sherlock's prone form while the rest of the party laugh and point. Through the throng he catches Sherlock's gaze and his stomach threatens to repeat on him again.

Those eyes, full of pain, fear, anger and betrayal.

He's going to be sick again. Tearing his gaze away from Sherlock he runs for the door. He makes it outside and then throws up into a bush. Fumbling his mobile from his pocket he calls for a taxi.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Hi all, thank you so much for your responses so far. Sorry this is a short chapter but it's a bridge of a sort. The next one will be when our boys are fully-grown and (perhaps) a bit more mature. Anyway, hope you enjoy xxx**

**Chapter Five**

_**Separation**_

"_He just looks weird, that's all."_

"_Don't talk to me… we're not friends."_

"_Most people are idiots. Why would I want them to like me?"_

"_Wow. That was… wow. That was amazing, Sherlock."_

"_Are you my enemy, John?"_

"_Why? You want to humiliate him in public?"_

"_I'll do it. But nothing too excessive, okay?"_

"_You have your own mind and I wish that you'd use it instead of following those cavemen around blindly."_

"_If you… get into trouble and you need somebody just give me a call, yeah?"_

"_It just doesn't seem right, Rob. Shouldn't we just rise above it? I know he can be difficult but he's still a person."_

"_Why are you pushing this?" _

"_John… if things aren't brilliant with your parents, you would tell me, correct? That's what friends do, isn't it? And you know you can always stay here."_

"_Drunk… Look! I'm my dad!"_

"_You deserve much better than me."_

"_John, I… I really like you. I don't like to hear you deride yourself. And I…"_

"_Get him out of here guys! Show him what we think of him!"_

"_John? John! Please!"_

"_Shut up, freak… fuck and he forced himself on you. Always knew the freak was a faggot."_

"_John!... Please."_

John wakes up with a strangled cry. His sheets are tangled around his body and drenched in sweat. His head feels like something hit it very hard with a sledgehammer and the nausea rocketing through his system is beyond anything he's ever felt. He barely makes it to the bathroom before vomiting into the toilet bowl.

Images are searing themselves into his mind. Sherlock, cold and calculating. Sherlock, warm and kind to him. Sherlock, alone in the circle and bleeding…

"Oh shit," he mutters, leaning over the toilet bowl. "Oh shit." He has never felt this bad about who he is. Ever. He's always thought of himself as a decent, stand-up guy. Nothing like his fucked-up family. Now he realises he has much more in common with his father than he thought. He's a coward. He's a bully.

He led Sherlock to that party like a lamb to the slaughter. He might have kidded himself that they would only throw a few jibes at Sherlock but he _knew_. He knew they would take it further and he did nothing to stop it. The image of Sherlock on the floor and bleeding, surrounded by baying hyenas will stay with him for a long time and haunt his dreams. He deserves nothing less.

After about twenty minutes of kneeling on the cold tiled floor he manages to stagger back to his bedroom and locate his mobile. He has numerous missed calls from Ryan, Rob and Joe but none from the one who actually matters.

Swallowing hard he accesses his contacts and presses Sherlock's name. The phone rings and rings before cutting off abruptly. Sherlock's pre-recorded voice echoes through the speakers.

"_This is Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message."_

"Sherlock…" he croaks out, "this is John. Obviously. Um, listen, I…" he trails off, racking his brains for any way to make what he did excusable, "I'm so sorry. Sherlock I'm sorry. Please, _please_ ring me back. Or text. Just to hurl abuse at me or tell me you never want to speak to me again. I just need to know you're okay." As soon as the words leave his mouth he winces. Of course Sherlock isn't okay. When he'd left they'd been beating him to a pulp. "I really need to speak to you. My dad announced we're moving tomorrow so I won't see you at school and I…" he wipes a shaking hand down his face, "I want to say goodbye. I want to say sorry in person. I don't expect forgiveness but… just ring me. Please. I'm sorry."

He hangs up just as the warning sounds tell him his message is approaching maximum length. The mobile clatters to the floor as he makes another dash for the bathroom.

Five hours later and he finally feels like all the vomit has left his system. He's left about ten messages on Sherlock's phone and rung countless times. His other 'friends' have been trying to get in touch but he doesn't want anything to do with them. He did this to Sherlock because he was trying to be something he wasn't and only now does he realise how incredibly stupid he's been.

At about seven o'clock in the evening his mobile rings. He glances at the screen, expecting to see Ryan, Rob or Joe's name and instead sees Sherlock. He scrabbles for the phone and swipes to answer.

"Hello? Sherlock? Listen I…"

"This is not Sherlock, John. This is Mycroft, his older brother."

John blinks and immediately warning lights flash in his mind. "Oh, right."

"Do not attempt to contact my brother again. He doesn't want to speak to you or see you. Ever. His number is changing imminently so you may as well delete this one from your mobile."

John's heart sinks and his vision blurs with sudden tears as the fact that he has truly lost his only true friend properly sinks in.

"I understand," he says quietly once he finds his voice again. "Just one thing, Mycroft. Is he okay? They didn't hurt him too badly did they?"

"He's currently in the hospital. He has a broken arm and nose, suspected cracked ribs and a badly sprained knee not to mention severe bruising." John chokes out a gasp and fresh tears flood his eyes. "He'll be off school for weeks and after that we'll be moving away. Our mother feels that this town's education system is no longer working to his advantage."

"Right. Yes. Mycroft, can you tell him I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, for everything."

There is a long silence before Mycroft replies and when he does his tone is icy. "My brother trusted you, John Watson. He has been bullied and hurt countless times over the years during his school days but it didn't matter so much because he never left himself open to emotional damage. He took a risk on you. He insisted you were different. I suppose I should thank you in a way. He's learnt his lesson now. Caring is not an advantage. Goodbye John Watson."

The line goes dead. John stares at his phone, the tears dripping down his cheeks.

XXXXXXXXX

John can barely remember packing and getting ready to leave. His thoughts are blurred and fuzzy. The grief is almost overwhelming. It's strange to him that one person can have come to mean so much. He knows that Sherlock is somebody unique and interesting, someone who could have made him better, could have made him feel alive. Sherlock had trusted him. Sherlock had liked him for who he was, deep down inside.

As their car finally pulls away from the kerb, heading toward the motorway, John burrows down in his seat and doesn't look back.


End file.
